The ways of life are numerous
Each way displays its own districts and streets
Some bear “…the junction of slothity and poverty”
Others carry attractive posts, the likes for gullible minds
“…wine and dine with the best of time wasters”

One way screams with speakers at pride’s plane
Above terrestrial comprehension
“…junction for all smokers”
It adds “…all those are welcome
who silt to their fill and pipe like chimney”

Observe enough and see folks encroached
Battered and weathered by wrong decisions
Having gory tales to tell.
Why are you blaming them?
It was not their fault, everyman had a plan.
God, they loved for leverage and so had no plans for Him.
In turn, He made plans without them.

It is dusk so soon, but the pleasure they sought
Have tarnished into sorrow
Now they have gathered from their destruct
Reared by those who were yet to begin
“What is the way forward?”
A question not too late but waned.

The sage bent by age, suffocated by their sulphur
Forerunner of their presence
Mixed with perfumed breath of the ‘holics
Smiling though, on the surging crowd
His lips made twitches….then failed.
His hands took over….but frailed.
Then pointed his digits
Fingers that have served all prodigals

That way that looks rugged at the entrance
With no welcome sign
So narrow that your slings must be parted
That is the way, the way of the Blood and the Cross.